Ernie
Tell me why you're gone.
I miss you so much. Yes, there's Hannah, and Susan, and Wayne and Michael and Neville and yes yes yes...
But I miss you, Justin. Something reminds me of a joke we used to have and I turn, looking around for you, before remembering that you're not here.
I can picture you in your house (manor house?), with your wand stashed away, lighting lights with electricity and cooking slowly and using all those Muggle contraptions, and when you go to school, learning all those things you told us about - chemistry and math and physics and writing and history.
Would you write me, and tell me about blowing up the lab with chemicals instead of misused spells?
Would you write me, tell me what it's like, not having house elves, what it's like, not living next to the kitchens, what it's like, reading to electric light instead of the firelight, what it's like, writing your essays on Shakespeare, not Potions, what it's like, studying history of wars with guns and cannons and not Goblins and ancient wizards, what it's like, not being Cruciated every time you open your mouth?
Would you write me, and risk using magical coding quills, even though you're all but renouncing your magic and living like a Muggle? Just don't ask, and you won't be hurt.
Would you come, for the battle?
Don't look surprised - you knew it would come to this. Because how can I miss you and hate you and want you to stay gone, to stay safe, at the same time? Don't look surprised - you always knew it would come to this. Ever since the snake and Voldemort (I can say it now - you would too, because we've faced worse than a name by now) and Cedric. Don't look surprised - you always knew it would come to this.
I was wondering what you did with your owl. She was the most beautiful thing - turned heads when she came flying in at breakfast with your letters and packages. Where is she? You couldn't keep her - she'd draw far too much attention to a house that's supposed to belong to a family of extremely well-off Muggles.
There's always this wrongness, this nagging fear, when I think of you. Your house is protected by fences, not charms. A careless Alohamora is all it will take to reach you.
Your wand stuffed down among your old shirts, hidden in the back of a dresser you've probably forgotten all about. How long would it take you, to get it, if someone came for you? How long would it take you to think up the spells to use to save yourself, after almost a year of no practicing magic?
Hannah cries, sometimes. She never used to cry. All I can do is hold her and feel utterly useless. She misses you, I can tell.
Hannah's crying. She tries to pretend like it's not tearing her up inside but she worries more than my mother and it's hopeless.
Justin.
What are we doing?
